With thee in pensive pleasure I would melt;

To me thy raptures, thy endearments give: Oh, ye, who these according joys have felt, Say, with a generous friend, how sweet to grieve.

Oh, yes, we love our sorrows to impart,
And meet our comfort from a kindred heart;

The elevated soul by thee refin'd,

Once to thy dear enchanting sway resign'd,
Shall ever pour the genuine vow to thee,
Oh! child of tender sensibility.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:

Source of all good, oh, teach my voice to sing,
Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, GOD of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to chaos, "Let the earth arise."
Oh! Author of the rich luxuriant year,
Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear;
Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep,
And even hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To thee celestial hymns of rapture float.

'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, GOD of mercy-heav'n's immortal King
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh, fill my heart with elevated fire:

With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offerings shall to thee ascend.
Yes! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire!"
And when to thee my youth, my life I've giv'n,
Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav'n.

TO INDEPENDENCE.

HAIL, Independence! source of blessings, hail! Nurse of the towering thought, the gallant deed; When blest by thee how sweet the simple vale, How charms with thee the brook, th' enamell'd mead!

And when the lark, the messenger of day,

Proclaims the roseate morn will soon appear; With thee that melody inspires the lay,

How soft the carol, how distinct, how clear. With thee how doubly fair by Cynthia's beam, The starry lamps resplendent in the sky : How gently flow the crystal purling stream, How radiant Phoebus meets the dazzled eye, With thee how jocund fleets the ecstatic hour, How shine the lucid drops which bend the flower

How gay the sylvan scene, whene'er we rove, Wandering with thee, and with the maid we love.

TO THE MOON.

CYLLENE rise! yon osier trees,
Waving their branches to the breeze,
Court thee in hollow gentle sighs,
And whisper, " Fair Cyllene rise."

Heaven's canopy is studded bright,
With countless stars in streams of light,
Yet what avail their beams divine,
If thou, fair queen, refuse to shine.

The shepherd's lute, with sprightly sound,
Awakes the mountain echoes round;
And as the warbling cadence dies,
It murmurs forth, "Cyllene rise."

Down in yon vale the minstrel's hand
Strikes the loud harp to glory's band;
And as the glowing theme's pursu’d,
Feels all his youthful fires renew'd.

And now to thee he tunes the lay,
And courts thy soft and placid ray;
Romantic melody awakes the skies,
To thee he carols, "fair Cyllene rise."

YOUTH.

AH! halcyon Youth, delightful hours,
When not a cloud of sorrow lowers;
When every moment wings its flight,
To waft new joy and new delight.
Kind, unsuspecting, and sincere,
Youth knows no pang, no jealous fear;
And sprightly Health with cherub face,
Elivens ev'ry opening grace;

And tranquil Peace to youth is dear.
And laughing Pleasure hovers near,
If Sorrow heave the little breast,
There Plaintive sorrow cannot rest;
For swiftly flies the transient pain,
And Pleasure re-assumes her reign.
The tale the sons of woe impart,
Vibrates upon the youthful heart;
The soul is open to belief,
And Pity flies to soften grief.
Hope with sweet expressive eye,
Mirth, and gay Felicity,
Fancy in her lively dress,

Pity who delights to bless;
Innocence, and candid Truth,

These, and more attend on Youth.

HYMN.

GREAT GOD! at whose "creative word,"
Arising Nature own'd her Lord;

At whose behest, from gloomy night
The earth arose in order bright!
To whom the poet swells the song,
And cherub's loftier notes belong :
To Thee be glory, honour, praise;
Great GOD! who canst depress or raise.

Say all ye learned, all ye wise,
What towering pillars prop the skies?
What massy chains suspend the earth?
'Tis his High power who gave it birth.
'Tis He who sends the grateful shower;
'Tis He who paints the glowing flower.
Let the loud anthem raise the strain,
While echo murmurs again.

And ye who wander o'er the sheaf-crown'd fields,
Praise him for all the plenty harvest yields;
Let harp and and voice their swelling notes com-
bine,

To praise all nature's GOD, the Architect divine!